Burdens of a Sunset
by Edison Kells
Summary: Reconsidering Klingon Honor...


**Burdens of a Sunset**   
**by Edison Kells**   
(September 1997)   
  
Chapters: 

[Intro][1] [1][2] [2][3] [3][4] [4][5] [5][6] [6][7] [7][8] [8][9] [9][10] [10][11]

- PREFACE -

  
     This is a story of two estranged Klingon adolescents: Alexander, son of Worf, and Toral, son of Duras.   It tells of their very different struggles as each seeks to find a place of honor and integrity in a decaying Klingon society.   Like all Klingon tales, this is one of triumph and tragedy.  
  
     I got the idea for this story from thinking about open-ended episodes in the regular Star Trek canon.   Although _Burdens of a Sunset_ takes place in the Deep Space Nine era, after Dax and Worf get together, the background for the the main character, Toral, can be found in the Next Generation episode, _ Redemption_.  
  
     I finished this short story in September 1997 for entry in a Star Trek writing contest.   Much thanks to friends Dennis, John, and Cindy for proofing and details.   Needless to say I did not win the contest, or I wouldn't be posting the story here.   My friends tell me it that its still pretty good.   Let me know what you think...  


********************

  


> I propose nothing short of revolution--  Brace for change, or resign to death.  Encourage upheaval as you would a child, embrace strife as you would a lover, and welcome change as you would a long, lost friend.  Demand revolution, for revolution alone can save our Klingon Empire!  
  
--Kosh, Son of Kronos  
  from _The Rise and Fall of the Klingon Empire_

  


[- 1 -][12]  
  
    Droq leaned across the table towards Worf, the edges of his grayed warrior's beard slopping in Dax's drink.   Lowering his voice, he delivered the punch line, "The Romulan screamed, 'I did not know that cheese was food!'".   
  
    The pause was subtle; the ensuing laughter was not.   Dax was the first to notice the disapproving glances from Klingons at nearby tables, and soon caught the barkeep's condemning glare.   It was hard to believe they were on Kronos, the Klingon homeworld.  
    She quieted herself and placed a hand on Worf's knee, "Better take it easy.   The proprietor seems to be getting annoyed."  
    "Annoyed?", Worf boomed.   He turned his head to glower at the bartender, and continued in a loud voice, "I haven't given anyone reason to be annoyed--yet!"   
    Worf slapped the table, and the two Klingons took up their raucous refrain again.  
  
    "Well, Worf, life must be treating you pretty well after all these years.   I don't believe I've ever seen you more relaxed, peaceful -- even jovial!"  
    Dax smirked, "Careful, Droq.   Insults like that could lose you your beard."  
    "Bah!" Droq interjected.   "You asked how he resembles his father?    It's in his laughter that Worf resembles his father the most."   
  
    Droq had been a close friend of Worf's parents, and even traveled to the Klingon outpost, Khitomer, for Worf's B'raw Taq, the birthing celebration of the firstborn.   Throughout his life, Worf had rarely heard from Droq, and even saw him less frequently.   But he always appeared at pivotal times -- the times of honor when his own father would have been present were he still alive.   It was Droq who first handed Worf a bat'leth, pronouncing his manhood.   And Worf remembered the surprise he had felt, and also the pride, when he noticed Droq seated in the assembly at his Starfleet graduation.   Like a surrogate parent, Droq always seemed to be present for Worf at important times -- but only at important times.   And Droq had never requested a visit from Worf before.   
  
    That thought sobered Worf, and he began to wonder again about Droq's invitation for him to come to Kronos "whenever it was convenient".   Of course, such a request obligated Worf to visit without delay, demonstrating respect towards an esteemed elder and mentor.   Worf and Dax arrived on the Klingon homeworld only hours earlier, and were startled at the deteriorated living conditions they found there.   Rumor had it that decades of economic depression were taking their toll on Klingon society, but they were unprepared for the pervasive poverty they found.   Right now, more troubling to Worf than economics, however, was why he was "summoned" there.   
  
    "Droq-- Why is it that you've asked me to come to Kronos?"  
    Droq looked down at the table, and sighed.   When he raised his eyes to meet Worf's, he spoke quietly.   "I guess we've done enough mirth-making for one night.   I need to ask of you a favor, Worf."  
    He paused and glanced at Dax, who stiffened defensively at his obvious disease towards her presence.   She squinted her eyes.   "I'm sure Kirzon would have found great humor in your asking favors of a younger Klingon."  
    "Of course!", Droq relaxed, "I somehow can't get it through my thick skull that that garish rascal now holds counsel behind such -- engaging eyes.   Please, Dax, no offense intended.   The matters about which we must speak require, shall I say, a desperate sensitivity."   He looked down at the table again, and this time did not raise his eyes as he spoke.   "What do you know of the Civilist Movement?"  
    Dax's countenance grew stern as she crossed her arms and sat back in her chair.  
    Worf crushed the goblet in his hand. 

[- 2 -][12]

  
     He noted that there was only one other Klingon aboard the Terran Passenger Cruiser bound for Kronos, and that she was seated in the rear of the cabin, a vantage point from which she was able to watch his every move.   She had boarded where he did, at Mars Junction, and had disembarked at the same stopover stations along the way.   Or at least it seemed that way.  
  
     "_I'm getting so overly paranoid!_", Alexander thought.   "_She's probably just an exchange student on her way home to Kronos._"  
  
     Alexander had his Stellar Travel Pass altered by his best friend and fellow student at Oxford University, Terry, who claimed the pass was fabricated from some of the most indestructible materials known to the Federation.   Terry was studying Cyborganics, and took great pleasure in being able to crack the Federation's isotopic encryption mechanisms.   The credentials Alexander now carried identified him as P'rak, a Cross-cultural Attache' for the Ferengi Interplanetary-trade Bureau, traveling on a business visa from Earth to Kronos.   In other words, he was posing as an errand boy.  
  
     Alexander's thoughts drifted to his grandmother, wondering if he should have told her of this jaunt into the heart of the Klingon Empire.   But Helena Rozhenko would only have worried, and badgered him not to go, and who knows?, probably think she was doing him a favor by informing the authorities--or worse, his father!--of his departure.   Since this was to be nothing more than a two-week fact-finding mission, Alexander saw no reason to upset her by telling her of it.   That left only three people who knew he was taking this trip:   himself, Terry, and his Cultural Studies professor, Dr. Moki Trang.   "The fewer the people who know, the more successful the trip will be," Trang told him.  
  
     Alexander recalled the first time he heard Dr. Trang lecture three years earlier.   The topic sounded so dreary: "Cycles in Humanoid Cultural Experiences".   He expected he was going to have to do all he could in order to stay awake, especially when Trang couldn't get the holo-projector to work.   But to the surprise of the entire audience, the human was riveting.   Afterwards the students all agreed that holo-images would only have detracted from the doctor's lecture.  
  
     Trang's opening words were branded into Alexander's memory:   "Human culture dotes on war, Vulcan on emotion, Romulan on anarchy, and Klingon on gentility."   He remembered the snickering that peppered the lecture hall in the pause following that statement, everyone thinking the doctor was making a joke.   But the room quieted as Trang stepped around from the podium and sat on the edge of the speaker's platform--sat and peered, it seemed, into each face one by one.   Alexander fondly recalled the doctor's smiling eyes engaging his own, the dawning of realization tickling his thoughts, that his shame and disdain for the militaristic bent of his people was -- honorable!  
  
     It was under Trang's tutelage that Alexander found inspiration and encouragement to explore his feelings, develop his ideas, flesh out his convictions about "The Klingon Way".   The professor helped him hone his thoughts to a singular statement:   "The Klingon Empire will inevitably self-destruct unless it abandons its idolization of the warrior mentality."  
  
     But it was Trang who also had secretly published Alexander's writings under the pen name Kosh, Son of Kronos.   When the professor originally suggested Alexander publish his first treatise, "The Way of the Artisan", Alexander stood adamantly against it.   On one level, he didn't want his works subjected to public scrutiny, especially considering that Klingon scrutiny often involved bloodshed.   But on a deeper, unspoken level, he feared lest he be the cause of even more disappointment, or "dishonor", to his estranged father.   Great was his surprise when, upon perusing a copy of The Klinshai Gazette (required reading under Dr. Trang), Alexander came across a Klingon rebuttal to "The Way of the Artisan".   For months, he was outraged that his mentor would take such liberties without consulting or informing him.   But as usual, Dr. Trang's reasoning prevailed, and since that time three more of Kosh's expositions were published, these with Alexander's consent.  
  
     Alexander turned to check on the female Klingon seated behind him.   Her seat was empty.   "_Probably just gone to the fresher_," he thought.   "_Funny, I should have seen her pass by..._"   
     Shaking off his nervousness, he lifted a stylus to his datapad, and added to his latest thesis:   "Museums are replete with relics of conquest-minded civilizations whose demises can be traced to their love of aggression and conquest.   In fact, the Klingon Empire is already an anomaly amongst these cultures for having lasted as long as it has.   In recent history alone, portents are mounting, signs are ominous.   Consider the Praxis fallout, the Khitomer massacre, the Narendra incident, the failed invasion of Cardassia..."  
  
     Alexander put the stylus to his cheek, and let his thoughts wander again.   Lately he was feeling the frustrations of trying to be two different people:   Alexander the student, who enjoyed a good game of Paresi Squares just like anyone else his age; and Kosh, Son of Kronos, whose prophetic words were rumored to be inspiring people to sow seeds of revolution throughout the Klingon Empire.   He so wanted to reveal himself, Alexander Rozhenko, as the true founder of the Klingon Civilist Movement.   But Trang was right.   That would surely mean his death was imminent.   For already, boasts from would-be champions of "The Klingon Way" were becoming more frequent, promising to seek out and silence this Kosh 'patoq'.  
  
     Alexander smiled sadly.   "How crazy it all seems, out here in space, thousands of light years from home.   And as if it wasn't bad enough trying to be two people, now I have to juggle being three -- Alexander, Kosh, and P'rak!"    
  
    "Excuse me, you are civilian P'rak?", the cabin steward's approach caught Alexander off guard.  
     "Yes?", he responded cautiously.  
     "Secured communication for you in Holo-Booth Two in the forward cabin.   Will you receive a comlink from the Ferengi Interplanetary-trade Bureau?"  
     Alexander froze.  
     The steward continued, "It's simple, sir, follow me please?"  
  
     The trip forward through several passenger cabins was nothing short of torturous for Alexander.   He could only assume he had been found out, that they learned P'rak was not his real name, and now he would be interrogated by Federation authorities.   Would his scholarship be in jeopardy?   Had his family been informed?   Would Terry and Dr. Trang be implicated?   And worst of all, had they also discovered that he was Civilist Kosh?  
  
     They came to the spacious, three-story Forward Cabin.   There was a circular food and beverage bar in the center of the cabin, surrounded by tables of noisy, congregating creatures.   Some kind of ensemble filled the room with a cacophony that somebody, somewhere in the universe considered to be "music".   Half-way through the room, Alexander saw the Klingon girl seated at the bar.   His knees started to give out, and he reflexively grabbed the back of what he thought was a chair in order to steady himself.  
     "Ey, uda gabba?", a gruff voice thundered in Alexander's translator as the "chair" reeled around to face him.   The flight steward grabbed Alexander's arm.  
     "Just this way, sir, please?"  
  
     They approached a door which had "Holo-Booth 2" scrawled on it in Ferengese and Klingonese, and Alexander felt certain this was his interrogation chamber.   Before he had time to reconsider going in, the steward had him seated and shut alone in the dimly lit booth.   He heard a voice which reiterated the Klingonese holo-message floating in space before him:   "Please unsheathe your Stellar Travel Pass for authorization scanning."   He drew the flimsy pass out of an inside vest pocket as a violet beam scanned from somewhere beyond the holo-image.  
     "Authorization confirmed.   Will you accept the charges for a communication from the Ferengi Interplanetary-trade Bureau?   Please state yes or no."  
     Alexander teetered on refusing.  
     "Please state yes or no."  
     "Loq", he mumbled.  
     "Link established.   This transmission terminates when the booth's door is opened.   Thank you for using Universal Holophone and Holograph."  
  
     The man's voice came through before his image. "Hello, P'rak?"  
     Alexander sputtered, "Please, sir, let me expl--"  
     Just then the speaker's image appeared before him, and Alexander's eyes grew large as a life-sized hologram of his friend Terry, grinning ear to ear, came into focus.  
     "I--could--kill--you!", Alexander glared.  
     "Now what kind of greeting is that from someone who preaches Klingons should forsake their violent ways?", Terry teased.   "Had you going there for a minute, huh?"  
     "What in the galaxy are you doing?   I can't afford this comlink!", Alexander protested.  
     "Relax, this one's on the Ferengi Interplanetary-trade Bureau, and by the time they realize it, P'rak won't exist anymore.   Now settle down, and listen.   I have some disturbing news to tell you..." 

[- 3 -][12]

  
     The lighting in the guest quarters, much like the mood, was subdued.   Worf's countenance clearly communicated to Dax he needed to gather his composure, his thoughts.   Years of companionship taught her not to tread on such private moments, but this time she intuitively knew he needed a rescue.  
  
     "We can sit here quietly, or I could leave, but I don't think either would do you any good," Dax began.   
     Worf didn't respond, but slouched further in his chair, head propped up in his hand.   He continued to stare off into a shadowy corner of the room.   
     "If you can't tell me what you're thinking, tell me what you're feeling," Dax pressed lightly.   
     After a long moment, Worf began, "I feel...like my people will forever regard me as a renegade, a second-class Klingon."   
     Dax winced and audibly drew in a deep breath.   
     Worf continued, "What Droq asks of me is to stand before all the Empire, and declare myself a misfit."   
     "That's not what I heard him ask you to do," Dax politely countered.   
     "No?", Worf slowly turned to face her. "You heard his words:   'Because of your affiliation and familiarity...'"   
     "'...with other cultures'," Dax interrupted.   "Yes, I heard clearly, and what he asks makes perfect sense to me."   
     Worf raised his voice, "I won't do it!"   
     "Fine", Dax responded calmly, "Shall I tell Droq, or will you?   He's been waiting..."   
     "Who is this Kosh that I should make a public spectacle of myself to rebut him?   He might not even be a Klingon!   For all we know, he could be a Romulan, or a Cardassian, or even a disguised Changeling!   Should I make a fool of myself for that?"  
  
     Dax drew a deep breath to establish her composure.   
     "We knew that several organizations-- Klingon organizations-- had already formed to advance the ideals of Kosh's teachings.   What we didn't know was how widespread his influence really is.   Droq said he even suspects that there are sympathizers on the High Council!   Worf, we've seen the billets all over this city.   Klingons wanting to democratically vote for who sits on the High Council?   Like Droq said, if only one member of the Council concedes, there will be a bloodier revolution than this Empire has ever seen."   
     She paused and quieted.   "You could be the one to prevent that.   The way I see it, it doesn't matter who Kosh is.   What matters is that he, or they, or whatever, is spreading an ideology that tears at the core of Klingon society.   And it tears at the core of your and my soul, too!"  
  
     Worf shook his head, turning back to stare into empty space.   Dax approached him.   "I think it makes perfect sense for you to be spokesperson against this Civilist Movement.   Worf, you are a Klingon with honor--one who upholds and embodies Klingon tradition."   
     "A Klingon with honor who lives amongst humans," he interjected.   
     Dax was warmed up now.   "But that's exactly the man we need for this hour!   You heard Droq.   So far, every Klingon that speaks or acts against The Civilists just serves to further their cause.   Any words used to criticize them, they cry rhetoric.   Any aggressive action taken to silence them, they turn into an example of the intolerances of Klingon culture."   
     Dax knelt beside Worf's chair to face him eye to eye.   
     "You are unique in that you successfully live both sides of the issue -- a proud, traditional Klingon -- one who was raised, works, and lives in a non-Klingon world.   Don't you see the impact you could have in countering Kosh's claims?   You are living proof that the Klingon Way works inside and outside..."  
  
     The door chime sounded, and before either Worf or Dax could respond, one of Droq's battle-dressed servants entered, eyes darting about the room.   Worf and Dax rose to the challenge.   
     "What is...," Dax began.   
     The Klingon cut her off, "Droq has disappeared." 

[- 4 -][12]

  
     The Klingon warrior toyed with his younger opponent, staring menacingly into his eyes while swaying his bat'leth and skirting side to side.   His opponent stepped towards him, jabbing with his weapon.   But the Klingon gracefully stepped aside, and taking advantage of his opponent's imbalance, knocked him on his face using a back-swing with the blunt edge of his bat'leth.   The felled opponent scrambled to roll and rise, as their instructor had just taught them, but the Klingon was too quick, and too good.   Though his back was to his rising opponent, in a singular motion he moved his two hands to grip the bat'leth at one end, and with a gleam of malice, turned into his opponent as he swung the blade upward...  
  
     "Toral!", Pa'qal shouted, causing the rest of the class to turn from their exercises.   "Enough!"   
     The blade stopped centimeters from his opponent's chin.   
     "Civilist," Toral snarled under his breath to his adversary.   
     The rest of the young Klingon men began murmuring among themselves.   
     "Bakra, Toral, stand down.   The rest of you, back to your routines!"   
     With a prideful smile, Toral turned and began walking to a bench near the gymnasium's wall.   From somewhere in the class, a voice yelled out, "For the Empire!"   
     Toral turned with fist in the air, "For the Empire!"   
     "Silence!", Pa'qal bellowed.  
  
     The room grew very still.   Pa'qal strode to where Toral stood, and looking up into his eyes, began softly, "I run this classroom with the honor of Klingon tradition."   Toral stiffened at the perceived insult.   Pa'qal looked around at the others, and spoke a little more forcefully, "Something few of you know anything about."   Returning his glare to Toral, he continued in a harsh voice, "I will not tolerate your playing out your petty aggressions in my class," and turning sharply on the class, "Nor will I allow this to be a forum for trite, political sloganing!"  
  
     Most of the young men dropped their gazes, subconsciously acknowledging and bearing the transgression of their associates.   A few, however, defiantly locked stares with their instructor.   
     "Which of you dared shout out such drivel in my classroom?", Pa'qal challenged.   
     No one moved.   
     "And you claim to uphold Klingon ideals!", he mocked.   
     One of the defiant stepped forward.   
     Pa'qal stared him down and hissed, "The rest of you are dismissed."  
  
-----  
  
     "Bakra!   Wait up!"   
     Bakra slowed as Teqrel, one of the more popular students in their class, caught up to him.   "Hey, don't let what happened in there get to you.   Toral resents having to be schooled with us younger guys.   You know he carries a chip on his shoulder."   
     Bakra asked, "I wonder -- if I was the last surviving member of a dishonored House, would I be as bitter as he is?"   
     "Probably would, especially if you had to put up the fight he did just to get admitted into school in the first place.   But remember, his is not just any dishonored House.   The House of Duras is the Betrayer of Khitomer!", Teqrel replied.   
     "I know, I know:   'The dishonor of the father dishonors his sons and their sons for three generations.'"   Bakra grabbed Teqrel's shoulder.   "I just have to say it.   To me it's just another example of how wrong our Klingon ways can be."   
     Teqrel resigned, "Your concept of a child not having to suffer for the sins of his parent is quite revolutionary, but somewhat appealing."   
     "Unique, at least," another student chimed in.   A small gathering began to form in the hallway outside the gymnasium.   
     Teqrel continued, "But what happened in there today spoke louder than any of your Civilist propaganda so far.   That was pretty ugly.   In that sense, our culture does have certain -- shortcomings.   But whose doesn't?"   
     "Shortcomings!", Bakra challenged.   "Did you ever consider, really consider, the first phrase Klingon children are taught before they can even comprehend what they're saying?"   
     "'Klingons are born to fight and to conquer'?"   
     "Exactly!"   Bakra continued, "And just look at what we're taught here in school.   It's all aggression-based education.   Our history, our literature, our sciences -- everything we learn here emphasizes that brute conquest is the highest way to earn honor and integrity in our society."   
     "Half our day is taken up with combat training, or Military Science," another student complained.   
     Bakra continued, "Let me ask you this:   How many of you were guilted by your elders into learning the Ways of the Warrior?"   
     "Well, I sure was.   I tried to say no -- once," one Klingon replied.   Another spoke up, "My father just presumed it for me.   I didn't resist, but inside I had my doubts."   There were grunts of assent all around.   
     Teqrel spoke up, "Now wait a minute.   I wanted to pursue the Warrior's way.   I had no doubts."   
     Bakra countered, "OK, but did you ever really have a choice if you didn't want to follow it?"   
     Teqrel nodded in acknowledgment, "I know what you're saying.   To not pursue Warrior status is to become a second-class citizen."   
     "At best!", Bakra added.   
     Teqrel began walking, the others followed.   "Come on, we'll be late for Battle Strategies class.   Did you say earlier that there's a Civilist meeting tonight?"   
     "Yes, at The Blood and Guts Pubhouse, just outside the east wall," Bakra answered.   
     "OK, maybe I'll see you there."   
     "Hey, do you guys really sleep on padded bed slabs?", one of the other's asked.   
     Bakra shook his head laughing, "Don't believe everything you hear, Chaq!"  
  
     Their laughter was interrupted as the gymnasium door slammed open.   The Klingon who had yelled out to Toral in class came through first, holding the door for Toral.   But when Toral saw the onlookers, he snarled, pushing him aside.   Toral walked slowly over to the gathering with a limp in his stride that he did not have before.   The Klingons made way for him as he approached.   
     Toral came face to face with Bakra.   
     "You had better hope I don't catch you alone, Civilist."   
     As he limped away, Bakra wiped the spit from his face. 

[- 5 -][12]

  
     Alexander focused on the Klingon boy with the torn strip of white rag tied around his upper arm.   He was posting a notice for an upcoming meeting of the Disciples of Kosh.   Within moments, a band of hostile peers gathered, badgering the boy with insults, the words soon turning to blows.   Alexander stepped in to break up the fray.  
  
     "What are you, a sympathizer?", one of the boys jeered at Alexander.   Another added, "Yeah, a Civilist coward sympathizer."   "Afraid to wear your dishonor on your sleeve?   You ought to be!"   
     Alexander watched the retreating boys, amazed at the public display of disrespect.   On a deeper level, he began struggling with the thought that he was the cause of this small skirmish -- and worse, of Dr. Trang's murder that Terry had just informed him...   
     "Are you?", the battered boy asked from behind him.   
     Alexander turned, "Am I what?"   
     "Are you a coward?"   
     "I am no coward," Alexander asserted.   
     "Where do you stand, then, Klingon?"   
     The boy's arrogance amazed him.   But then he recognized his own childhood rebellion in him.   Was that an inherent Klingon trait?   He referred to the handbill the boy had hung up.   
     "I'm a visitor to these parts.   Where is this Blood and Guts Pubhouse?", Alexander asked.   
     "Come.   It's nearly sundown.   I'll take you there."  
  
     They moved slowly along the crowded walkway of the high East wall as the Klingon sun was setting over the great city of Klinshai.   Though there was much going on around him, and the majesty of the city grew even more mysterious in the twilight, Alexander's thoughts turned inward.   But they were a blur.   He had only been on the planet for several hours now, and already he felt, amidst the blatant poverty, the public tensions that the Civilist movement -- his movement -- was causing.   He was having a hard time reconciling the idea that he was at the vortex of recent, violent events.   One thing he was certain of, though:   this was not what he intended.   Not at all.  
  
-----  
  
     It had been a long time since Worf saw the sun setting over Klinshai.   He considered it's pale to be a fitting match for the rampant societal decay so obvious throughout this once great city.   Dax and Worf confined themselves to Droq's empty home, waiting for news about his disappearance.   
     Worf believed no one was aware of the request Droq had made of him -- to speak as an expatriate Klingon against the Civilists.   He told the inspector that he and his wife were merely on a personal visit to an old friend, which was largely the truth.   If Droq's disappearance was related to his anti-Civilist stance, anyone could be suspect.   Worf and Dax agreed that to be declared on either side of the issue was potentially dangerous -- even fatal.   Worf still had not made up his mind.   He wanted to see for himself the impact Kosh and the Civilists were having on the Klingon homeworld.  
  
     While Dax rested in the guest room, Worf watched the interplay of shadows and red-golden sunlight reflecting off the spires and talons of the great city, and found in himself a renewing sense of determination and pride.   It was good to be "home".   
     The door chime sounded, and Worf called out, "Who's there?"   
     "Worf, son of Mogh?," a Klingon stood in the opening doorway.   
     "Yes?", Worf responded.   
     The Klingon approached him with a document in his hand.   "A confidential message from the High Council."   
     As Worf took the document, something pinched his hand.   He looked in time to see the needle retract back into the messenger's leather glove.   Two more Klingons entered the room, just in time to grab him as he passed out.  
  
-----  
  
     Elsewhere in the great city, from the sole window of a dark and ill-kempt apartment, another Klingon brooded in the twilight of the setting sun.   He heard footsteps approaching from the outside hallway, followed by the apartment's door opening and closing.   Without turning, he spoke in a low voice, "So, Pachqua, you have returned empty handed."   
     "Wrong, Toral.   We both arrived only a few hours ago," a younger Klingon woman answered.   
     Toral raised an eyebrow, "Kosh is here?   I'm curious, Pachqua.   I did not think you would find him so easily."   
     "It was not as easy as you suspect.   As you can see, it took some time and expense to locate him."   
     Toral turned and snapped at her, "You will be well compensated for your troubles, if it is truly Kosh you bring me, sister!"   
     "His name is Alexander," Pachqua offered.   
     "A human name?", asked Toral.   
     "He's a Klingon, at least in appearance, about my own age.   It seems he was raised by adoptive human parents on Earth," she responded.   
     Toral exploded, "Bah!   What has The Empire come to? -- falling for the rantings of one who's not even a true Klingon!"   
     "That's how I found him," Pachqua spoke calmly.   "Since we knew that Civilist teachings were obviously Federation propaganda, I investigated Federation publishing sources with ties into the Klingon Empire.   Eventually, my search led me to a Dr. Trang, a professor -- or should I say ex-professor -- at a Terran University.   At first I thought Trang was Kosh.   But it was not difficult, as it never is with humans, to extract the requested information."   
     "Where is Kosh now?," Toral asked pensively.   
     "Upon our arrival, I followed him, to learn where he was staying.   He wandered in the streets and upon the walls for several hours."   Pachqua handed him the paper she was holding.   "I believe you'll find him here tonight..."   
     Toral read the meeting notice and turned his gaze in the direction of the Blood and Guts Pubhouse.   He watched the shadow of nightfall rise to consume the last of the sunset on the eastern wall of Klinshai.   As he crumpled the page in his hand, he swore, "Soon, the glory of the House of Duras shall be restored!" 

[- 6 -][12]

  
     Everything was blurry.   Worf blinked his eyes, and soon his vision cleared to reveal a Klingon peering down into his face.   Worf tried to get up, but found he was paralyzed, unable to turn even his head.   The Klingon spoke, but Worf heard nothing.   Soon, an older Klingon came into his field of vision.   It was then that Worf remembered he was on Kronos.  
  
     The younger Klingon set a hypo-spray to Worf's temple.   He felt a pins-and-needles sensation begin to slowly crawl around in his head, quickly turning into a hammering pain as a loud roar burst open his eardrums.   Worf tried to cry out, but as he opened his mouth, a mere whimper emerged.   The elder was speaking, but all he heard was a roaring, a roaring...  
  
     "...--vinced you to become a sympathizer?"   
     "Your questions must have yes or no for an answer," the younger stated.   
     "Primitive!", the elder growled back at him.   "Are you, Worf, Son of Mogh, a Civilist sympathizer?"   
     As if a reflex, Worf's mouth formed the word, and in a long, drawn whisper, he shouted, "Noooooo!"   
     "Satisfied?", the elder challenged the other Klingon.   "Now bring him to!"  
  
     As soon as the hypo-spray was removed from his neck, Worf felt sensation painfully returning to his limbs.   When he tried to move, he found he was strapped down to the table.   
     "And remove his restraints!", the elder ordered.   
     "What is the meaning of this?   Who are you?", Worf demanded.   
     "These are very troubled times, my friend.   I am Tegra, minister of the High Council," the elder replied as he moved away, "and one cannot be too careful, especially with one who fraternizes with conspirators."   
     "Conspirators?"   Worf swung off the table to find two armed Klingons flanking Tegra.   He gestured towards the table, "Have our fears caused us to assume the dishonorable ways of Romulans, then?"   
     "Worf, hear me out first, and you will understand why I spared you this way.   What business do you have with Droq?"   
     Worf answered, "Droq! What have you done with him?"   
     "Done?", Tegra turned to Worf with a puzzled expression.   "I've done nothing with this..." spitting to the side, "...Civilist sympathizer.   Now I know from your confession under sedation that you do not support the Civilists.   So, what is your business with Droq, then?"   
     Worf grew confused, and leaned back on the table.   "Wait a minute! Droq, a...?   Why would he lie?"   
     "That we're hoping you can tell us," Tegra said as he walked nearer to Worf, "since he obviously summoned you across thousands of light years for some subversive reason.   What did he tell you about his involvement with the Civilist Movement?"  
  
     Thoughts of Droq's request to speak against the Civilist Movement flooded Worf's mind.   Droq had warned that some on the High Council were Civilist sympathizers.   Could Droq himself be one of them?   If he was, then...   
     Tegra drew close to Worf and spoke forcefully.   "Are you even aware that Droq is a Civilist sympathizer?"   
     "Not possible!", Worf responded with confusion.   "He wanted me--" Worf cut himself short.   
     Tegra jumped on his words.   "Wanted what?"   
     Worf hesitated.   "I will say nothing more."   
     "Are you aware," Tegra continued, "of Droq's intents to force democratic elections on the High Council?   He has become a mere political opportunist, looking to abscond the power of the Council, not according to Klingon honor or tradition.   No, instead he intends to pose as the Councilmember who sympathizes with Civilist ideals..."   
     Worf came face-to-face with Tegra.   "I will say nothing more until I speak with Droq myself.   I will determine if these allegations are true, and for your sake..."   
     "Spare me your threats!," Tegra hissed.   "Come with me now, and I'll show you where the betrayer of The High Council has disappeared to!" 

[- 7 -][12]

  
  
     "With our great empire on the brink of imminent collapse, we cannot afford to _not_ take action.   Look around you at the poverty.   Look around you at the decay.   Not only are our buildings and streets in shambles, but so are the lives and souls of our people.   I realize many of you are young, and have no memory of the incredible glory and prestige that was once embodied by this great city, this great world, this great empire.   But left in the hands of this ragged band of battle-mongers, who spend the fruits of our blood and sweat on war machines, who spend their efforts and energies on the intergalactic border skirmishes of other races, who turn deaf ears to the outcries of the impoverished Klingon people, who choose to neglect the dire needs here at home-- Left in their hands, we are a doomed empire, a lost race, and a hopeless people."  
  
     As the speaker stepped down from the makeshift podium, hundreds of Klingon arms bearing the white rag of the Civilist movement were raised, and cheers filled the crowded Blood and Guts Pubhouse.   Alexander was dumbfounded as he watched speaker after speaker mount the podium during the last hour, expounding on Kosh's ideals, quoting Kosh's writings-- which were his ideals, his writings.  
  
     This last speaker, however, caused Alexander concern.   Not only was his speech emotionally charged, but he implied stronger socio-political ramifications to the writings of Kosh than Alexander had ever intended.   But Alexander considered, in light of the dire conditions here on Kronos, perhaps he would have come to some of the same allegations and conclusions this speaker had.  
  
     The crowd inside the pubhouse continued to swell, and some were even standing in the street to overhear the goings-on inside.   Alexander noticed that there were quite a few, like himself, who did not wear the white Civilist rag around their arm.   But so far, to his surprise, no one had heckled the speakers.   
     An elder, battle-dressed Klingon took the podium next, leaning forward against it as he peered out over the crowd through squinting eyes.   Soon, the room was quiet again.   The Klingon stood for several moments, unmoving, unspeaking, letting the uneasiness of silence fix upon the room.   Several coughed nervously.   The speaker smiled, and began.  
  
     "It is time," he said calmly, and then he paused again.   
     "Right now, throughout the Klingon Empire, the Disciples of Kosh are gathered in hundreds of groups, very much like this one.   We are growing, we are learning, we are speaking.   But our numbers go unheeded, our ideals scorned, and our words ignored.   So, it is time--time for us to take the next step.   Kosh teaches that, if the powers-that-be continue to suppress the masses..."   
     "_What's this?_," Alexander wondered.   
     "...even limited and controlled acts of aggression, if need be.   It is time."   
    Alexander thought, "_I never even alluded to anything of the sort!_"   
     Several low grunts of approval could be heard around the room, but Alexander saw some shifting uneasily in their places.   Tension increased as the murmurs in the room began to grow.   Alexander caught pieces of scattered whisperings: "...uprising...", "...demand justice...", "...assert our rights...", "...revolution..."   Alexander saw in the crowd the bloodied face of the boy who led him to the pubhouse, and then thought of his now-dead professor and friend, Dr. Trang.   
     The speaker began again, this time shouting, "It is time!"   
     "Wait!," Alexander shouted as he jumped from his seat.   
     It seemed a million Klingon eyes turned on him as the room fell into an icy stillness.   
     "You have something to say, stranger?," the challenge came from the podium.   Alexander trembled physically as he pushed himself forward.   The boy who brought him tugged on his vest as he passed, face warning, "_Don't!_"   But Alexander pressed on until he stood just beneath the imposing speaker.   
     Voice quivering, and hardly audible, he began, "These are not the teachings of Kosh!"   
     "What!   Are you calling me a liar?", the speaker boomed.   
     "I call myself Kosh!", Alexander retorted with confidence.   
     After a brief moment of shocked silence, the room burst into an uproarious protest, people throwing accusations at Alexander and at each other.   The speaker raised his hands in the air and yelled, "Quiet!"   
     The room fell to a simmer as he moved from the podium to stare Alexander down.   "Your life should not be spared for uttering such blasphemy," the warrior snarled.   
     "And that from one who calls himself a Disciple of Kosh?," Alexander asked with confident defiance.   
     "How would you prove yourself, blasphemer?," the flustered Klingon challenged.   
     Alexander pulled his datapad from an inside vest pocket, and thrust it at the Klingon.   "You'll find my writings in the original here."   
     "This proves nothing," the Klingon replied as he threw the datapad to another nearby.   "Electronic documents are easily forged."   
     The Klingon holding the datapad began, "Says here your name is Alexander Rozhenko.   You're not even a Klingon!"  
  
     The room burst out in protest again, when suddenly a Klingon rushed towards Alexander, wrenched one arm behind him, threw a sack over his head, and held a kut'luch dagger to his throat.   
     "Back off," he yelled, "or your beloved Kosh dies!"   
     Three other Klingons pulled disrupters on the crowd while protectively surrounding the attacker and hostage, who were moving slowly towards the doorway.   
     "I am Toral, Son of Duras, here to restore the honor of the Klingon Empire!"   
     Scattered about the room, several shouted, "For the Empire!"   
     "Toral," the speaker growled, "don't be a fool!   How can this be Kosh?"   
     "I have good reason to believe he is, Councillor Droq," Toral responded coolly as he paused in the doorway, "so he will be my hostage until you convince yourselves that your Klingon savior is -- neither!"  
  
     A heavily disguised Worf and Tegra arrived to see people flooding from the Blood and Guts.   Worf overheard a quick conversation between two passing youths.   
     "Teqrel!   I don't care if it's Kosh, or Alexander, or whoever -- we can't let Toral get away with this!"   
     "Don't worry, Bakra, I know where to find him."   
     Worf stopped dead in his tracks and turned to engage the youths, when Tegra grabbed his shoulder with one hand, and with the other pointed to a figure exiting from the door of the pubhouse.   "There's your Droq, Betrayer of the High Council!" 

[- 8 -][12]

  
  
     Dax started as the door into Droq's quarters flew open.   "We must pack our things," Worf offered as a greeting.   
     He strode towards their guestroom as Dax protested, "Wait!"   She followed and watched perplexedly from the guestroom doorway as he began throwing their personal articles into carry bags.   
     "We are not staying in the home of a Civilist," he continued with disgust in his voice.   
     "Civilist?   Droq?!," Dax asked.   
     Continuing to pack, Worf answered, "It's a long story, and I do not want to be here when Droq arrives.   It's time to leave Kronos."   
     "But I don't understand," Dax continued as Worf secured the two carry bags, and moved towards the door.   Dax blocked his exit.   
     "I will explain it to you on the way, but we must leave now," Worf pleaded as he pushed past her.   
     "Worf," Dax rushed to intercept his path, "stop one minute!"   
     As Worf continued towards the exit from Droq's quarters, Dax maneuvered herself in front of him, and with a quick motion of arms and leg, landed him on his back.   She stood over him with a stern expression and yelled angrily, "Your mother called while you were out!"   
     "My mother?   Helena?   Called here?", a twice-startled Worf asked.   
     "Yes!," Dax continued, "Alexander has come to Kronos.   He is here, now!"   
     Just then, Droq arrived. 

[- 9 -][12]

  
     A Klingon warrior entered the High Council chamber, strode briskly to the Chancellor, spoke privately to him, and departed the chamber.   
     "We are convinced," the Chancellor declared, "This is indeed Kosh you hold."   
     "Lord Chancellor, on behalf of The House of Duras, my sister and I formally wish to offer this 'patoq' as a gift to the High Council," Toral spoke as he shoved Alexander towards the Chancellor.   
     Pachqua stood guard over a pair of battered young Klingon warriors lying unconsciously several paces away.   The nearby fallen Kut'luch daggers and bloodied faces of Bakra and Teqrel told of a recent struggle.   
     The Chancellor approached Alexander, circled him, and as he examined him, addressed Toral.   
     "Do you know whose son this is you've brought me?"   
     Toral responded, "Alexander, Son of Rozhenko!"   
     "Ah, Son of Rozhenko, yes!," the Chancellor continued smiling into Alexander's face.   "He doesn't know who you are, Alexander, Son of Rozhenko.   Tell him whose son you are, then."   
     Alexander spoke assertively, "I am Alexander, son of..."   
     "Worf, Son of Mogh!"   
     Their eyes turned to the chamber's entranceway to see who spoke these words.   
     "Father?," Alexander asked with surprise.   
     Worf took several steps into the room.   The startled Toral moved to block his way, realization transforming his expression.  
  
     "Alexander -- your son?   Well, well, what a day can bring!   Pachqua, guard the prisoner," Toral began as he sauntered slowly towards Worf.   "First, I deliver Kosh, Traitor to The Empire, regaining honor for the house of Duras.   Then, into my hands falls the one who stole my personal honor, who robbed me of the fate which was rightfully mine to bear.   I think I'm beginning to piece it together -- Civilist sympathizer!"   
     Toral reached a hand behind to grab his Kut'luch.   
     "Father, watch out!," Alexander warned.   But as he began to move towards Toral, Pachqua felled him with a blow to his stomach.   Worf started forward, but Toral was on him in an instant, kut'luch drawn to his throat.   
     "I was hoping you'd try that," Toral snarled.   
     "Chancellor," Worf called out, "spare my son!"   
     But he replied, "Your honor is challenged, Son of Mogh.   The Council will not interfere."   
     Toral snarled, "Your duty was to take my life, Klingon!   Instead, you choose to spare it.   It's no mystery to me where Alexander, Son of Worf, gets his Civilist ideas from!"  
  
     Alexander started to rise, but a breath-taking kick from Pachqua landed him on his back.   Bakra roused at that moment, and struggled to grab the Kut'luch that lay nearby.   "Alexander!", he distracted Pachqua as he called out.   With gasping effort, he tossed his dagger near Alexander, who reached out for it.   But Pachqua turned and crushed Alexander's hand with her foot.   She picked up the weapon.   
     "Nice work, my sister," Toral spoke.   "Finish him. His death will be the beginning of my revenge, and his father's fading memory."  
  
     Pachqua grabbed Alexander's hair in one hand, and raised him to half height.   Worf struggled in Toral's grip, and the two fell to the floor, wrestling for an upper hand.   As Pachqua stabbed her dagger towards Alexander's breast, Bakra cried out, "No!"   In the distraction, Toral was able to wrestle Worf to his back, and now knelt over him, Kut'luch in both hands as Worf reached up with both of his to stop it's descent.   
     "Revenge...," Toral began, "...is a dish...", the struggling dagger was nearing Worf's throat.   
     Pachqua's Kut'luch did not penetrate Alexander's tunic, and in the moment of both their surprise, Alexander felt a burst of fierce determination he had never known before.   Clasping his hands together, in one swift movement, he rose with a roar, knocked the dagger from Pachqua's hands, and delivered a forceful blow upward to her jaw.   
     "...best...," Toral continued the proverb as his weapon inched closer to Worf, "...served..."   
     "Cold!," Alexander growled from behind him as he sunk Pachqua's Kut'luch into Toral's back.  
  
     Just then, Dax and Droq appeared in the entranceway to the Council chamber with Tegra in tow, bound as a prisoner. 

[- 10 -][12]

  
     "Again, Droq, my apologies for ever doubting your honor," Worf humbly offered as he clasped Droq's arm in a farewell gesture.   
     Droq replied warmly, "Think no more of it, my son.   I would have drawn the same conclusions were our roles reversed.   I'm sure the High Council's plan to cripple the Disciples of Kosh by sowing dissension from within would have succeeded, if," he turned to Alexander with a smile, "Kosh himself hadn't shown up!"   
     "Fortunately for you," Dax interjected, "that Worf realized Tegra's false intentions, or things could have gotten pretty messy for the Council."   
     Worf replied, "No honorable Klingon would use sedation to learn truth.   His actions betrayed his lies."   
     "And fortunately for Alexander the Federation makes such sturdy travel passes," Droq laughed as he patted Alexander's chest.  
  
     "Launch shuttle 109," the Spaceport terminal's intercom announced, "departing for the Neutral Zone, is now boarding."  
  
     Dax, Worf, and Alexander lifted their travel bags.   
     Droq grabbed Alexander's shoulders with both hands.   "We don't need to agree on every point of Klingon culture, young Alexander.   But remember this: Honor is more important than life itself."   
     Alexander smiled, "I will consider it, sir."   
     "Qapla'!"  
  


[The End][12]



   [1]: #intro
   [2]: #1
   [3]: #2
   [4]: #3
   [5]: #4
   [6]: #5
   [7]: #6
   [8]: #7
   [9]: #8
   [10]: #9
   [11]: #10
   [12]: #titlestop



End file.
